Paul heard a screeching crash. It made him jump and spill his coffee, and he ran to the window to see if he could see it. He could. There, blocks away, on the Third Street bridge, a car had broken through the railing and hung, half on the bridge and half off, teetering on the edge.

Rummaging through a cupboard in such haste that he threw unwanted outdoor clothes on the ground, Paul came up with his binoculars. Looking through them, he watched the crowd gathering, saw a woman punch the now-deflating airbags out of her way, watched her scrabble to get the door open and fail. He wondered if he should call 911, but saw at least a dozen people with their phones out.

Why was he still watching? He felt a rush of shame at his voyeurism, told himself he only wanted to know it came out okay, then wondered if he was lying to himself. He wanted to throw the binoculars away. he wanted to crawl into his bed and hide. But he watched on, and wondered why he couldn't stop.

Staring, watching, he wondered if he could possibly feel good about himself when this was over.